Volume 1 Issue 3 Unlike Father, Like Son
by Serial Spider
Summary: The Osborns try to rule their respective worlds, but with great power comes a lot of fighting.


Serial Spider

6/2/08

_Issue Three_

"_Unlike Father, Like Son"_

"Peter! Oh, Peter: your lunch!"

"Oh, God, sorry, Aunt May."

Peter spun around, snatching the brown bag from his aunt's hand. He sprinted out through the kitchen door to the road, his backpack bouncing haphazardly on his back. Gray skies hovered overhead, taunting with the idea of rain by tossing a droplet every so often to the ground below.

Peter looked up at the dismal clouds from the bus stop, checking his watch occasionally to ensure he wasn't late. Across the road, a couple of cars tore through the puddles, splattering water to either side.

When the school bus finally came and rumbled forward with Peter in tow, it was tailed by the hulking white face of a U-Haul truck. Peter leaned against the window to watch it plant across the street from his house. They parked the metal mass in front of the _For Sale _sign that had become a neighborhood landmark. No one had seemed to want the house. Too many cats was the rumor. And yet apparently someone had opted for the house, although Peter was long gone before any other cars pulled up in front.

He turned back to rest his head on the brown pleather seat in front of him, picking at the plastic lining with his hand.

"Pansy Parker!" called Flash. "Yo! Pete!"

"What do you want, Flash?" Peter asked reluctantly, leaning up from his seat.

"I didn't do my math. Do it for me."

"What are you in, Pre-Algebra?"

Flash stared blankly at him. "Dude, seriously, Parker. Don't try to be funny. This is due first period, and I don't feel like it."

"Thompson," Peter said. "That's really old-school. No one does someone else's homework just 'cause the other person is two hundred pounds of muscle."

"I bet if I beat the sh—"

"Dude. Seriously. There are like forty people on this bus. You're not gonna beat me up; do your own damned homework."

What Peter, of course, didn't expect, was Flash Thompson's massive fist slamming down into his face.

* * *

"Good morning, Mr. Osborn," said his secretary. She entered his luxurious office with her usual lack of emotion. Her rich lips hid any hope of a smile, and her expressions were buried below carefully applied makeup. In one hand she held his morning espresso, and the other carried the morning paper.

"The Bugle first, Alice," he said, remaining seated. Mr. Osborn's presence commanded even the furniture in his office. It seemed that if he spoke or twitched, his entire environment bowed to him. But somehow Alice lived outside of his authoritative world.

She lay the paper down as he asked, and situated the latte at the corner of the desktop. Norman Osborn looked up at her with dark green eyes that swam like a pool of Hades, misty and cruel, and yet eternally filled with the power of a god. His jet brown hair, gelled aside, reflected the blaring white walls and fluorescent lighting.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Osborn?"

"Call in Otto," he said. "And schedule a twelve o'clock with Bestman. And be prompt, Lex. I've got a busy day ahead of me."

"Yes, Mr. Osborn."

* * *

"Oh. My. God. Peter, what happened to your face?"

Gwen rushed forward to him, discarding her books as she ran.

"Flash happened," he said.

Harry, not far behind her, fumed at the name. "Are you kidding me, Petey?" he asked, as Gwen put her arm around Peter's shoulders. His face was puffy and purple, his glasses askew over his bloodstained nose.

"Harry, let it go," Peter said. "He's a dick. It's okay."

"What'd he do it for?"

"I wouldn't do his math homework for him."

"You gotta be—FLASH!"

Crowded and noisy as Midtown High's hallways were, Flash couldn't miss Harry Osborn's call. His blond hair flickered in the sea of heads, and then he was leaning over Harry, imposing and bulky as always.

"You got something to say to me, Pretty Boy?"

"I'm calling you out, asshole."

"I could take you in an instant, Osborn."

"You talk the talk, Flash. And then you beat up on twigs like Peter. This afternoon in the senior lot."

Peter grabbed Harry's arm. "Don't be stupid, Harry." They locked eyes, and Harry sneered.

Flash snickered. "You got yourself a date, Osborn," he said. And then he was gone, lost once again in the roaring halls.

"What are you thinking, Harry?" asked Peter, infuriated at Harry's brashness. "He's huge!"

"Flash is a terrible fighter," said Harry. "He's a football player. He just knows how to tackle. I owe you this, man."

"For what?" Peter asked.

"Dude. Come on. You're the best friend a guy could ask for. Am I right?"

* * *

Otto Octavius was by no means a small man. He was short, that was a given; he was five feet tall without a hair more. But he was portly, and somewhere in that dough ball of a man, was a brain not to be reckoned with. Dr. Octavius was a legend among physicists, playing as large a role in the world of quantum science as Peter's hero, Dr. Connors, did to the world of genetics.

Otto took a seat across from Norman, and behind his large bifocals, a glint of glee seemed to tickle him into a smile.

"Doctor," said Osborn. "It's good to see you."

"The pleasure is always mine, Norman."

"How are you, doc?"

"Never been better," he said, smiling. "It has just come to my attention this morning," he said, his smile bursting forth even further, "that I am soon to be the proud father of a baby boy."

"Congratulations, Otto," said Norman, with a characteristically even tone. "I've got a gift for you, then. Adrian Toomes brought us a final mock-up for the army wings. Tony Stark doesn't even have something like this. We'll have government finances for a hundred years if we can get these prints built. This company will revolutionize the technological market another time over. Flight, Otto! Imagine the possibilities.

"The American military _used_ to swoop in on fighter jets and stealth craft. Now each soldier comes in himself, spiraling to the battlefront." Norman threw his designer shoes on his desk, gesturing with his broad hands in the air. "A constellation of aerial units fires from the heavens, and this lays destruction on the enemy. Utter victory. Do you see it, Doc?"

"I mean, Norman, I see the possibility for men to stop worrying about filling a car with enough gas to transport himself, when he can suddenly afford to run for days on wings with a half-gallon of fuel. Forget the military, we can save our oil dependency. Let me see the drawings."

Norman handed them over and stood up. "You have your plans, Otto, and I have mine. Now, the beautiful part is that you serve me. So you'll have a mock-up done by the end of the week?"

"You're pushing it, Norman."

"Don't talk back to me, Otto. Clear out of here and do what you're paid to do. I've got a meeting with Bestman on the hour."

"Yes, sir," said Dr. Octavius, standing sheepishly. "I'll be out of your hair, sir."

"You're playing with the big—"

"—the big boys now. I know, sir."

"Think of your son, Otto. That's all I'm saying. End of the week, I want to see angels."

* * *

Harry Osborn cracked his knuckles. "Have you _ever_ had a _friend_, Flash?"

"Screw you. I got my whole team behind me."

"Oh, yeah. Your cronies."

"Look here, Osborn. Just because daddy's got a lot of money, doesn't mean this fight's yours."

"Shut up and face me, Flash."

Flash charged forwards, peeling back his arm. A hook punch to Harry's jaw sent the crowd wild. Osborn ducked and jabbed Flash in the side. It didn't do much.

Flash turned and swung again, wide. Harry's guard stayed up. He shot his hand aside and blocked it.

"Come on, ninja boy," said Flash. "Mr. Miyagi isn't gonna help you now."

Harry kicked at Flash, who grabbed his leg and twisted, sending Harry spinning in the air. He shot his hands out, breaking his fall on the pavement. He rolled again as Flash barreled down on him, and then leapt on top. A flurry of punches flew from Harry's arms to Flash's face, cascading on his cheeks.

Flash shoved up against him, but Harry leaned back and jammed both of his elbows into Flash's knees, flattening them to the ground as Thompson's athlete muscles strained. Flash cried out and Harry ducked under one of the legs, swinging around perpendicular to him. He bounced up and then jammed his elbow into Flash's ribs.

Thompson's hand connected with Harry's jaw, spurting blood from his mouth. Squeals from the onlookers came at the first sight of blood. Harry, his mouth already filling with the loosed crimson liquid, threw his arm around Flash's neck, grabbed that wrist with his right hand, and choked.

People shouted and descended on him. Football jocks were peeling him back, dragging Flash away as the football captain choked for air. It took six burly juniors to hold Flash back from diving forward at Harry, and Peter, Gwen, and another handful of the crowd to hold back Harry.

"Thompson! Osborn!"

The principal's voice silenced the crowd.

"My office!" The mob dispersed like a dustbowl, each student blowing away like wind-tossed sand. "NOW!"

* * *

"Does that sound like a fair sum to you?" Mr. Osborn asked.

"Wouldn't question it for a second, Norman."

"Bestman, I want you to assure me that Toomes has nothing left. If that two-timing bastard turns around and releases so much as a feather before my production is complete, I could sue him until his ancestors owed me money for all the good it would do. This is the cold war now, and someone's gonna make these first. And I'm not fighting an opponent. I'm crushing him. Are we clear, Bestman? There will be _nothing_ left."

"Clear, sir."

A buzz sounded from his desk phone.

"Excuse me a moment," said Norman.

"Mr. Osborn." It was Alice. "The principal of your son's school is on the phone. Harry got in a fight. Should I tell her you'll be sending someone to pick him up?"

"Have them bring him here, and interrupt whatever I have going on. I'll teach my son to stain my name. Not this week, the little f--k."

And then he hung up.

"Get out of my face, Bestman."

As Norman sat alone in his office, the world seemed to bow to him again. But it was also shuddering, for it seemed that the unrestrained anger simmering in Norman Osborn was enough to warrant immediate intervention. If only Harry could have foreseen what his genuine act of friendship would cost him.

If only.

It wouldn't have changed his mind.


End file.
